


somebody better call the doctor (seems like a case of hiding everything that's wrong)

by austen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 08:23:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8837464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/austen/pseuds/austen
Summary: They're five hours out of Iowa, and Dean still hasn't said a word to him. Set after 1x07: "Hook Man".





	

They're five hours out of Iowa, and Dean still hasn't said a word to him.

Normally, this wouldn't bother Sam. They've spent many a road trip in little to no silence, the only noises between them the occasional clearing of Dean's throat and the flipping of pages as Sam reads his dog-eared copy of _The Sound and the Fury_. But today, Sam can't keep his attention focused on his book. The words blur in front of his eyes, and Dean seems to be fidgeting slightly more than normal.

It's been dark for about twenty minutes when Dean suddenly turns the wheel, and the Impala takes a sharp turn off the main highway onto a side road, tires rumbling over gravel as they stop at a bar. Dean puts the car in park, turns off the ignition, and gets out without a word. Sam's mid-chapter, but he throws down his book onto the front seat and follows Dean in, grumbling all the way.

The bar's clouded with smoke, crowded with people, and Sam has to hold his breath to keep from smelling all kinds of unsavory odors. By the time he makes it to the bar, Dean's set himself up on a stool, a beer in hand and an empty shot glass resting beside his knuckles. Sam checks the stool next to him for suspicious stains before he takes a seat.

"Dean," he says, and his brother looks at him for what feels like the first time all day.

"What the hell are we _doing_ here?"

"What does it look like, Sammy?" Dean waggles his eyebrows and somehow manages to smirk while sipping from his beer. "We're havin' a drink."

" _You're_ having a drink," Sam corrects, purposefully leaving out the part where he still _hates_ being called Sammy. Sammy is a pudgy twelve-year-old, his stomach sticking out with baby fat he still hasn't shed, and looking up at fifteen-year-old Dean, who by that age is already on his second girlfriend. 

"No," Dean insists, as the bartender comes around with a sweating beer, plunking it down right in front of Sam. " _We_ are."

Sam's still glaring even as he lifts it to his lips.

*

He's lost track of what time it is. The numbers on the clock behind the bar are illegible, his vision blurred by the effects of one too many shots. The first had been on Dean, the second and third paid for by a bachelorette party, and Sam's pretty sure it'd been the bride-to-be that had disappeared with Dean into the bathroom for twenty minutes.

"Dude," Dean breathes, as he returns to the bar, his belt now missing one of his jeans' loops completely, "I _love_ this town."

There's no amount of alcohol that can take away the suddenly sick feeling in the pit of Sam's stomach, but he's sure as hell going to try as he downs another shot, wincing at the slow burn that follows. Dean tilts his head, leans his body back against the bar, his thigh grazing Sam's kneecap in the process.

"Tell me somethin', Sammy," he slurs, his eyes half-lidded and almost sleepy in appearance. Sam knows better.

"Did you bang her? The preacher's daughter? 'Cause, I mean, for me, that's uncharted territory, but if _you_ actually pulled that off - well, I guess it would be _her_ pulling _that_ off, wouldn't it?" His gaze unapologetically lowers to Sam's crotch, and Sam averts his eyes, ignoring the flush that creeps up the back of his neck.

"I kissed her. Or she kissed me. _Once_ ," Sam insists. "I didn't do anything else. Swear."

"Yeah, sure." Dean scoffs openly, blowing a raspberry into Sam's face. Wordlessly, Sam reaches up to swipe a hand over his nose where some stray spit's landed, biting the inside of his cheek to keep quiet.

"Fine, Sammy, but you've got to let me in on the secret. Is it the whole college boy thing? Is that what the girls like?" Dean asks, his voice heavy with tequila, and Sam swallows thickly as the flush rises to the tips of his ears and he grips the empty shot glass in one hand.

"Or are they just not as easy as _you_?" Dean's still grinning like this is all some kind of fucking joke, but in the haze of his mind, Sam's feeling enough to get pretty pissed off. He didn't know Laurie, he didn't care about her the same way, he didn't understand what she'd had to deal with--

Sam snaps, releasing the glass to grab two handfuls of Dean's shirt, pulling him in viciously to snarl against his mouth.

"Shut the fuck _up_ , Dean," he hisses, pinning his brother against the bar with all the strength he can muster. "She wasn't some girl like the one you just fucked in that bathroom over there. Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

Dean lifts his arms, bringing them in between Sam's and prying himself away, shrugging his shoulders forward to loosen his shirt. The knowing smirk on his mouth is gone, replaced by an anger that Sam can only recognize in the tensing of his jaw, the narrowing of his eyes.

"You've been acting weird _ever_ since we _left_ that town!" Sam shouts, feeling the eyes of the other patrons turn on him, but for some reason, that only gives him further ammunition to keep going. His hands are down by his sides now, forming angry, trembling fists, and he digs his fingernails into his palms to keep himself from lashing out. Dean's the one who grabs him then, to drag him outside the bar and into the dusty parking lot. Sam staggers as Dean shoves him out the door, but he's still going, still shouting.

"I don't know _what_ the fuck your problem is, Dean, but it's definitely not as important as why we started this. You pulled me in for a reason, Dean: to look for Dad. You think he'd want to see you like this? You think he'd be _proud_ of you? It's been weeks since we've heard from him, and what, is he going to just walk in the door of any one of those crappy motels we've been staying in and apologize for everything?" Sam's voice breaks at the end of the question, from the exertion of screaming everything out, and the one thing that strikes him in all of this is that Dean's actually not saying a word for once. He's taking it in, absorbing every one of the barbs that Sam throws his way, and the part that frustrates Sam the most is that, even while he keeps ranting on, Dean's expression remains exactly the same: stoic, impenetrable, impassive.

"Well, that's not Dad. And that's not -- Dean, I can't keep _doing_ this. I can't keep having dreams about something I wasn't there to stop, and I'm not going to distract myself with all these hunts you keep pulling us out of looking for Dad to do. Dean, I can't..." Sam turns away as tears burn at the corners of his eyes, grimacing to fight them back with everything. He feels a pressure on his shoulder and stiffens into Dean's hand.

"Sam," Dean whispers, his fingers tightening just enough, and everything that's left of Sam breaks.

He sinks to his knees in the grit and grime of the parking lot, with Dean's hand still resting on him, and slowly, Sam reaches up to hold onto it, like it's the only thing keeping him connected to what's going on - to the hunting, to Dad, to Dean, to all of it. Dean squeezes once, and then he leans forward, his arms encircling Sam's shoulders, holding him close, tight against his own body while Sam sobs brokenly, openly, tears dripping down his chin and falling into the dirt at his feet.

He's still crying, and he feels Dean's lips graze the back of his neck, just at his hairline, and his body shudders from the combination of tears and sensing, feeling Dean this close to him. His hands go to Dean's forearm, clutching, fingertips running down the muscle, feeling it twitch under his touch, and Sam turns his head, wet eyes blinking up at Dean.

"Sammy," Dean says, but there's a fondness in it as one hand cups his cheek and swipes away the wetness on his face. Sam leans into Dean's fingers, sniffling noisily, and Dean's hand moves then, to let the pad of his thumb trace the curve of Sam's trembling lower lip.

"Dean?" Sam asks, and from this angle, he almost swears he can see something burning in his brother's eyes.

"Yeah?"

"Can we go now? I need--" His words fail him, because, frankly, he's not quite sure _what_ he needs now as he stumbles to his feet, Dean's touch moving to his back to keep him steady. He looks down now, and from _this_ angle, the look in Dean is gone.

"Sure, Sammy," Dean murmurs, and Sam can hear the faint jingle of car keys as Dean's hand disappears into the pocket of his leather jacket. "Let's get some sleep."

*

The next morning, they wake up in silence, eat breakfast in silence, and hit the road without any mention of the previous evening's events.

But when they stop at a gas station for a refill, Dean brings out a second soda for Sam without him even needing to ask for one, and as he gets into the car, he passes it over, a cold hand moving to ruffle Sam's hair.


End file.
